The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (28 page)

Mulholland shook his head. This was taking so long Proudfoot would be asleep by the time he got back into the room.

‘Look, missus, I don’t know who you are, but will you stop talking mince. We’re going to do this really quickly and then you can go home to bed, which I’m sure you should have done a long time ago. So, when did Barney Thomson stay with you?’

She gave another yank to the cardigan, ignored it straining against her shoulders.

‘About a week and a half ago,’ she said.

Mulholland shook his head. Of course it had been a week and a half ago. When else? It was the standard reaction time up here. A week and a half to go to the police; and he wondered if it took them a week and a half to go to the supermarket when they ran out of milk, or a week and a half to go to the toilet when they were desperate.

‘And you’re sure it was Barney Thomson?’

‘Oh, aye, aye, no doubt about it. Mr Strachan, now he thought it wasn’t, you know, but I says all along. No question, no question at all. It was him. I mean the wee manny’s been on the TV so much. Is it true, by the way, that it was his fault that yon Tommy Boyd shouldered the ball into his own net against Brazil in Paris?’

‘Aye, that was definitely his fault; that and the three goals we let in against Morocco. So why didn’t you go to the police at the time?’

‘Ach, well, you know how it is. Mr Strachan thought he wasn’t the laddie, you know, and so I procrastinated, I must admit. I know what you must be thinking, laddie, I know what you’re thinking. Procrastination is the thief of time, aye, isn’t that the truth? But nevertheless, all that being said and done, here I am now to tell you what it is I’ve got to tell you.’

Mulholland’s shoulder leaned a little more heavily against the door frame.

‘Have you a bet with Mr Strachan that you can keep me talking until the middle of next week?’

‘Well, if you don’t want to know where Barney Thomson was going after he left me, that’s your business.’

That certainly made a change, he thought. A forwarding address.

‘All right, Mrs Strachan. I presume you’re Mrs Strachan. Where was Barney Thomson going after he left you?’

‘Well,’ she said, but got no further. Her attention was grabbed by the pounding footsteps of a large man thumping along the creaking wooden corridor towards them.

‘Chief Inspector!’ said Sheep Dip, voice loud, giving no due attention to the lateness of the hour.

‘Sergeant Dip,’ said Mulholland. ‘Just in time.’

‘I think you should come downstairs, sir. There’s someone you should talk to.’

Mulholland stared at the sergeant, then at Mrs Strachan. Finally, irrevocably, with the damning impact of a fifty-tonne bomb on a brothel, the evening’s fun was over. Time to sober up. Time to start taking everything seriously. Time to descend once more into the sodden, miserable, plagued mood which had burdened him for the previous few days.

‘Barney Thomson, by any chance, come to give himself up?’

‘No, sir, it’s a monk.’

Mulholland let out a long sigh. ‘Why would it be anyone else?’ Then, looking at his watch, he added, ‘At half past one in the morning?’

‘There’s murder, sir. Serious murder. Murder to make the Barney Thomson business look like Hiroshima.’

‘I think that came out wrong, Sergeant. Can’t the local plods deal with it?’

‘In this weather, sir? There’s probably not another policeman for fifty mile.’

Mulholland closed his eyes. That was life for you, wasn’t it? No matter how bad it was; no matter what troughs of depression and despair it had dragged you through; no matter what fetid sewer it had dumped you into naked; no matter how shitey, miserable, pish, crap, fucking rubbish, shabby, squalid, abject, lamentable and pitiable it got; no matter how much putrid mince it vomited onto your plate; no matter how much manure was heaped onto your bed before you’d even got up in the morning…. it could always get worse.

With his eyes closed, the wine started to take hold. A bottle and a half? Hadn’t he used to be able to take about three bottles of the stuff and do everything the way it was meant to be done? Now he felt himself falling down some black tunnel, speed increasing, stomach beginning to churn. Lost himself in it for a while, then suddenly opened his eyes and looked up. No idea how long he’d been away. Sheep Dip stared at him. Proudfoot had appeared at his shoulder. Mary Strachan was gone.

Mulholland stared down the corridor, waved an unsteady hand.

‘Where is she?’ he said.

Sheep Dip shrugged. ‘Said something about how if you had more important matters than Barney Thomson, then she’d be getting to her bed, you know. I told her just to go.’

Mulholland stared at him for a while, then turned and gave Proudfoot a glance. He was drunk. On a bottle and a half of wine. Just how much of an idiot was he? Slowly, elegantly, balletically, he leaned back against the wall, his knees folded, and he slid down onto the floor.

‘Doesn’t it feel like we’re in
The Lord of the Rings
? Setting out on some great journey into the heart of darkness.’

The wilderness of snow stretched before them. Brother David strode ahead into the clawing cold of early morning, Sheep Dip at his side. Mulholland and Proudfoot minced along a few yards behind. The skies were grey but bright, the wind bitter, the snow fresh. No other sign of life. No deer, no birds, no sheep, no cattle. Every other creature was hidden away from the worst ravages of winter, yet unaware of the long wait for spring which lay ahead. There had been more snow in the night, so that the roads were once again blocked, forcing them to go the whole way on foot.

‘See yourself as Aragon, do you? Or one of those wee pasty blokes with hairy feet?’

Mulholland sniffed, could feel the damp to the bones of his feet, every chill blast of wind cutting through him.

‘Don’t think so. I’m the guy whose wife just left, he’s screwed up, wants to give someone a doing, and the last thing he needs is a bunch of prepubescent, psychopathic monks who can’t look after themselves.’

‘Oh,’ said Proudfoot. They walked on. ‘I don’t remember that character,’ she said after a while.

They trudged on through the snow, and on and on into the white of morning. Gradually Mulholland and Proudfoot dropped farther behind. Gradually they lost their bearings, so that they appeared to be in the middle of some great white mass; the hills and troughs become indistinct shapes, the horizon merged with the sky. The two figures up ahead got farther and farther away; Proudfoot put her foot through a thin pocket of snow into a knee-deep stream, then Mulholland did the same, not long after.

Relief – temporary relief – came at lunch-time. They saw the two distant figures ahead come to a halt and begin to clear snow from some rocks. And so the next twenty minutes only took them ten, as the thought alone of warm soup and cups of coffee gave them added energy.

But they were cold, cold like cold beer, when they caught the others. Sheep Dip was sitting on a rock, a plastic sheet spread out beneath him, a sandwich drifting between hand and mouth. Brother David stood a few yards away, ear to the hills, surveying the weather. Perhaps he was expecting a lost tribe of Apache to appear along a hilltop.

Mulholland and Proudfoot struggled soggily up to them, then settled against the rocks. Breathing hard, breaths in unison, the sound of a car exhaust rasping on a cold morning. Proudfoot was thinking of a bath, sinking slowly into the warm water, letting it inch up her skin. Mulholland was thinking of Melanie, presuming she was somewhere warm, presuming she was much happier than he; and so he pictured himself bursting into the bedroom, finding her with another man, lifting the baseball bat he always carried with him in violent fantasies, then crashing it down repeatedly into the head of the cuckolder. Hot blood sailing through the air in strange parabolas. That was the warmth he felt.

‘We shouldn’t spend too long in this place,’ said Brother David, eye to the sky, as if in receipt of some divine guidance. ‘The storm is returning. It’ll be snowing again before it gets dark.’

‘Zippity-fucking-doodah,’ said Mulholland. ‘We could do with some more snow. I was worried that this lot was going to melt.’

‘Oh no,’ said Brother David, ‘we’ll be lucky if these snows melt before the spring. Brother Malcolm says it reminds him of the winter of ‘38.’

Mulholland accepted a sandwich from Sheep Dip. ‘Oh, aye,’ he said, ‘remind me. What happened in the winter ‘38?’

David looked at Mulholland in the way he’d always used to look at policemen before he’d been captured by the monastery.

‘It snowed a lot,’ he said. ‘What did you think? That this reminded Malcolm of ‘38 because Dundee are struggling against relegation?’

Sheep Dip barked out a laugh, then devoured the rest of his fifth sandwich. Feeling pleased with himself for getting the hotel to double the number of packed lunches which Mulholland had ordered for the day.

He saw the chief inspector as the classical Lowlands nihilist, hell-bent on introspection and the denial of substance; so self-involved as to be disappearing up his own backside and, as a consequence, having absolutely no appetite – for food, for fighting crime, or for life. He liked him nevertheless, although he was yet to establish why. Perhaps the man’s inner angst appealed to some submerged anguish of his own. Either that or he just felt sorry for him.

‘Apparently it was a winter like no other,’ said Brother David. ‘The ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short, the sun farthest off
in solstitio brumali
, the very dead of Winter.’

‘Enough, already!’ said Mulholland. Sounding like a schmuck. David continued regardless.

‘Many of the monks were to die that year,’ he said.

‘Not unlike this year, then,’ said Mulholland, and immediately regretted it. Foul mood, and he ought to have been keeping his mouth shut.

‘What’d they die of?’ asked Proudfoot, trying to extinguish the previous remark. The endless sensitivity of the Glasgow police.

‘Cold,’ said David. ‘Cold and starvation. The monastery was cut off for over six months. The winter went on and on and on. They say,’ he said, then looked nervously around him, ‘that in order to survive, the monks who were left had to feast upon the flesh of the deceased.’

The wind whipped snow from the top of a rock, so that it looked like sand blowing in the desert. ‘I shouldn’t really be telling you that,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘They ate them?’ said Mulholland, pausing before he took another bite of his gammon sandwich. He stared at the meat, then let his hand drop away. ‘You’re making that up, right?’

David took another nervous glance over his shoulder, but this was too good an opportunity to miss. It was not often that they got the chance to talk to people from outwith the monastery walls. And virtually never a woman.

Proudfoot, thought Brother David, would be worth breaking your vows for. So he lowered his voice, and it seemed to mix with the low drone of the wind and the silence of the snow. The others had to stretch forward to hear him.

‘It was a terrible winter, indeed. For months and months the blizzard blew, and the monastery had no contact with the outside world. Ten monks set out for help at various times during that long dark night of winter, set out to bring relief to the monastery, but none of them ever returned. When spring finally arrived and the animals and birds returned, the snow melted and the flowers came, they found nine bodies, all within five miles of the monastery walls. Their features had been preserved by the cold, the terror and torture of death still etched on their faces.’

‘What about the tenth?’ asked Sheep Dip, biting into an apple. He loved this kind of story.

‘Oh,’ said David, ‘that’ll have been Brother Dorian. He made it to safety, all right. It was just that he fell into the bad ways in Durness, and by the time he’d sobered up and was able to tell anyone what was going on, it was the middle of summer.’